The Interview

Five men sat across the table from me. Dressed in suits and ties, their hair carefully combed and slicked back, shoes freshly shined, and pleasant smiles pasted on their smug faces, they stared at me expectantly. I smiled back. My leg bounced up and down, the sound and vibration dampened by the expensive carpet under my heels. The second hand ticked by slowly, finally pushing the minute hand to the 12 and the hour hand fully onto the three. Three o'clock sharp. The show would begin soon.

Sunlight pounded on the windows of an otherwise dusky room. A silhouette crossed it once, twice, three times before the scuffling of expensive loafers could be heard in the entryway. "Gentleman, it sounds as if he is here. If you could just wait one moment, I'll let him know you are here." I rose from my chair, my red nails pushing the wrinkles from sitting down the length of my skirt. They began to rise, but I put my hand up to let them know it would not be necessary.

Entering the hall, I left the door open a decent crack and walked to Mr. Stevenson. Quietly, I slipped my arm around his waist and placed my lips on his cheek. "It seems the FBI and IRS have come to call," I whispered. "They have some questions about last week's operation to Bolivia. I've told them the Madeline story." Smiling I pulled away and turned to lead him into the sitting room confident that their interview notes would tell the same story.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***